Dancing With The Devil
by Slytherfoot
Summary: Sam Puckett, dying, on the fourth street of Seattle, couldn't be more regretful. This isn't just deaths note that she's dancing to anymore. Maybe, if she would have listened, she wouldn't be stuck on those streets, with that unsent letter, heartbroken Sed


The rain. The rain was deafening. But the pelting bullets of water were the least of her worries. Scenarios buzzed around in her head, worries of disownment, banishment, and rejection, each as real as the last. She deserved all of it. Every single bit of it. She deserved all of the punishment the world could provide. It was like if she was a kid, running out in the cold without a jacket on and having to drink the worst tasting medicine in the world to get rid of the cough that came with it.

But this time, Sam Puckett wasn't worried about the taste of the medicine, she was worried about getting caught with the cold.

Because this time, Sam Puckett wasn't some child running outside and playing. Sam Puckett was a chilled to the bone, hardcore criminal.

Sam had lived on the streets for nearly four years, drowning in the crowded Seattle streets until she had sunk no lower than the pavement itself. When people passed by, she gained the looks of disappointment. Looks of disgust and judgement, even the occasional muttering of 'I knew this is where she'd end up. Shriveling in the corner of fourth street Seattle. Drunk, I suppose.' Sam didn't even bother getting up and doing anything about it. She just stayed there, on the ground, head in her arms hugging her legs to her chest. She looked as if she were dead. No one could even recognize her let alone identify her as the girl on the wanted poster. She would never be the one who made people laugh on one of the most successful web shows on the internet. Why? Because that wasn't her anymore. Sam Puckett left all that behind one night. Every seam of happiness left her, leaving her pale, weak, defenseless, hopeless, and alone. She didn't just leave her joy behind. She also left the only family she ever had, along with the love of her life. Sam hadn't spoken to anyone for four years, nor did she want to. She liked being alone now. She wanted to die alone. There was only one thing she wanted to do before she accepted this planned fate of hers. Her thin, bony hand lifted a worn, barely readable letter. She looked at it for a long time, her dull blue eyes impaling the piece of paper with hate, while the paper, pitifully, laid in her hand.

_Freddie,_

_I'm sorry. I'm so so so sorry. I didn't want this to happen. I never wanted anything like this to happen. I didn't know it would turn out this way! I'm writing this letter at the bus stop right now; the cops are everywhere, looking for me. I'm probably never going to see you again, and it's all my fault. Why did I do it? Why did I do it! Tell everyone I'm so sorry, but also tell them to never forgive me. I don't deserve it. I never deserved it. I never deserved any of your love. Not from Spencer, not from Carly, and especially not from you. Never from you. You deserve so much more than me, and even if you loved me, because I know I loved you, don't spend the rest of your life alone. Find someone else who would love you better than me. You could choose a streetlamp. Tell Carly thanks, for everything she did for me over the years. Tell her she was the best family I could have ever been provided, and tell it's not her fault, because I know she'll think that. _

_Everyone knew this was where my fate would lead me; a deadbeat, digging my own grave. It's all my fault. I should have never started carrying that switchblade, then maybe I wouldn't be in this situation. Maybe I wouldn't be stuck. Freddie, look, let me make this better. It' not half bad. This time I mean it. I mean, sure, this time it's way more serious, and I'm in denial, I know it. This time I can't just run away, so I'm trying to be strong, for you. It's going to be hard, and I can't just check myself into a mental hospital again. But, you know what? I guess it's ok. Don't worry about me. I'll find my way out of it. I'll find my way home. I promise. I'll slide around the police, like I always have. I'll stay low for a few months; I'll find a way. Just wait. _

_I love you Freddie, I don't think I ever told you enough; ever. I'm sorry. I love you. More than you'll ever know. Look Freddork, don't worry. If I don't come back, forget about me. Promise? Good. You better have said yes. Love you, Freddie, more than the stars and the moon._

_Sam. _

The biggest regret. Sam never sent the letter. The first few tries she simply couldn't do it. She wasn't strong enough. As the months grew to years, she started to not care about it. So here she was today, running away, again, just running. Running away from all her fears, even from the good things. Denial. Sam was still stuck in it. Sam wrote the letter, finishing some of it at different times. She smashed her phone a month in, having receive 408 texts from Freddie, and 336 from Carly. She didn't bother reading most of them. Some of them that she did read however, shattered her heart into a million pieces. She'll never forget one from Freddie,

_Sam. Please come home. Look, how about this, we'll run away together and never come back. We'll find a place where they'll never find us. I love you Sam, I always have, and I always will. I'm ready to rip the streets apart to find you. Spencer and Carly have spent forty eight hours on the streets, searching. They haven't found anything. We all love you Sam. Please. Come home. I love you, and I will, forever._

That's what tore Sam. That was only three days in. The 198th from Freddie. She didn't look at any of the others from him after that, but the ones from Carly weren't any better.

_Sam! Please Sam, please please please come back! I know, OK, I know this time you can't get yourself out of this. I know you think you can, but you can't. Sam, I know you're strong, but you'r not strong enough for this. No one is. We all love you. We're ready to do anything for you. Anything. Please! Sam! Please..._

That was the 95th from Carly.

_Kiddo. Do what you have to do. Just know, we're ready to help you if you come home. You can't stay out there forever._

Spencer.

_Good job rat, knew you'd find your home on the streets. Just don't come knocking on my door._

Mom.

Sam cried everyday, until she literally couldn't cry anymore. One thing she tried was pretending they never existed, and that she had always lived on the streets, but it didn't work. She wasn't a psycho... She was a murderer...

_Murder_. The word left a bad taste in her mouth. She wasn't able to stomach it for almost five months. Finally, when she tried digesting it, she ended up building her record, laughing at the broken glass, sneering at the frightened people who stared at the unhinged switchblade that stood out of her pocket at all times, dried blood from her single victim still rusted the open blade. She thought for a while that she had dug herself no deeper, so nothing mattered anymore. She stayed like that. Out of touch, insane, anything was easier than dealing with the pain. She stayed like that or a year, driving herself farther down the wrong road. The wrong way down the one-way track. Then there was the acceptance stage. The feeling she _had_ to stand there, dancing to the death rhythm until the final note drowned out. The feeling where she'd reached her final verdict, accepting the truth, hurting with every heartbeat. That it was never worth it. That she scare herself. That she was never worth it. She proved herself guilty, never innocent. The truth is better than the lie.

No. The truth was _never_ better than the lie. The lie didn't hurt. The truth is what finally drove Sam into the ground. She ripped the letter right down the middle, but it was still readable, and that's what kept what was left of Sam Puckett sane enough to live on.

But now, it was over. She was left for dead. And that's where she sat, closing her eyes, remembering all of the days that went by. Freddie remembered her. Freddie saw through the murderer she had become. Now though, as she looked death in the eyes, she wasn't just dancing to deaths note.

She was dancing with the devil.

She closed her eyes, daring herself to remember all of the good days she had forgotten. Carly smiling, Spencer hugging her, Freddie kissing her. iCarly. Not that girl. Not that girl she killed. Not her. iCarly. Her family. Not this.

The rain. The rain was deafening. The pelting bullets of water were her worries now. She couldn't think. Maybe, this was how she was supposed to die. Maybe this was it. This was the end.

Her heart. That beating was her metronome. That metronome was stopping. That metronomes rhythm that was there after all of this. She was suffering, dying. But she was happy about it.

And so, Sam Puckett, the criminal of fourth street Seattle, gave in, and breathing one last quivering breath, she dropped her note, unsent, into the middle of the street, where it accepted it's fate resting on none other than Freddie Bensons shoes.

**All right, I cried writing this. I admit it. Please damn it, _review_. I've never written a real tragedy before, so I need to know if I'm just fooling myself. Also, there are three songs in this fic that I unintentionally put in. I have to go to bed. No more tragedy writing for me...**

**Kishigo, out.**


End file.
